Eloquence and Espionage

by Regina Scott

He was quiet so long she thought he must have left. Then his voice came again. “Very well, I will meet you, but not here. Will you be attending the Caldecott ball tonight?”

  Her pulse was racing again. “I will.”

  “Then be on the balcony overlooking the garden at ten. I’ll meet you there. Come alone.”

  “Alone?” Ariadne wrinkled her nose. “But you just told me to go nowhere alone.”

  “Well, you won’t be alone because you’ll be with me. Just . . . not anyone else.”

  She sighed. “Very well, but I wish you’d make up your mind.”

  Somewhere nearby a book fell with a plop.

  “Someone’s coming,” he said. “See you tonight, at the ball.”

  Why not now, while his attention was diverted? Ariadne darted to the end of the row and turned, only to collide with someone. As she sat down, hard, she saw it was her sister. Daphne regarded her with a frown before extending a hand to help her up. By the time Ariadne had righted herself and checked, the other side of the row lay empty.

  “Well, that was a waste of time,” Daphne declared. “You have no books in your arms, and I was only able to determine from Mr. Hatchard that Archie, Freddie, Mr. Cunningham, and Sir Damon shop here with some regularity. He was less certain about Lord Hawksbury.”

  Ariadne smiled. “It doesn’t matter. I discovered my centurion will be attending the Caldecott ball tonight, and so will we.”

  Chapter Six

  Ariadne dressed with more care than usual for the Caldecott ball. Her mother had insisted that Ariadne and Daphne wear nothing but white in the evenings until their come out. Instead of a lavish ball, their debut had been held over a quiet dinner with family and a few select friends of her parents. It had all been very proper, but Ariadne had wanted to leap onto the table, brandish a soup spoon, and demand, “Have you no better plot for your lives than this?”

  Of course, she hadn’t. She’d sat politely, spoken when she was addressed, and earned herself a nod of approval from her mother.

  But not tonight. She refused to meet her centurion again face-to-face in simpering white. She had another dress in her wardrobe, worn only once to Priscilla and Emily’s ball, a dress she’d compromised her literary aspirations to earn enough money to purchase. Her mother had forbidden her to wear it again. But if there was a night to risk censure and punishment, it was tonight.

  “Mother will have apoplectic fit, again,” Daphne predicted when she came to fetch Ariadne. “But I think you look marvelous in green.”

  Ariadne spread her satin skirts to gaze down at the gown. Black lace medallions spotted the emerald green watered silk along the wide hem and the cap sleeves. She knew the scalloped neckline and tiny bodice called attention to her curves, just as the color turned her eyes to turquoise. With jet beads at her throat and ears, black opera gloves on her arms, her hair curled around her face and held aloft by jet combs, she felt sophisticated, daring, capable. The fire of those feelings burned brightly, warming her heart, raising her head, until she descended the stairs to where her parents waited in the entryway and saw the look in her mother’s blue eyes.

  “I believe we agreed you would give that to your maid,” Lady Rollings said, looking down her patrician nose at the satin as if it were covered in mud instead of lace. “I have not patronized Madame Levasard since she created that for you without my consent.”

  Which was a pity, as Ariadne would have liked to commission a second grown from the famous seamstress. “It seemed a shame to waste,” she tried.

  Her mother’s golden-blond head merely raised higher.

  “Dearest,” her father interjected with a hand to his wife’s arm, obviously mindful of disturbing the cerulean blue of her gown or the ostrich plumes waving in her carefully curled hair. “We are already nearly late. There isn’t time for Ariadne to change.”

  Her mother raised a brow. “Then perhaps she should stay home.”

  Oh, no! And miss the chance to meet her centurion? She opened her mouth to protest, but Daphne stepped between her and their mother with a swish of her snowy silk skirts.

  “An excellent idea!” she proclaimed, beaming. “Ariadne and I can stay home and practice archery. The sun should be up until nearly nine. Please, Mother? I am so tired of being surrounded by Eligibles whenever we go out, and I really dislike all the silver embroidery along the hem of this gown. Besides, Lord Hastings’ son Lord Petersborough has been pestering Ariadne for a dance, and I see no reason why she must oblige him even if he is the heir to a marquess.”

  Around Daphne, Ariadne could see the thoughts churning behind their mother’s eyes. “Lord Petersborough called the other day while you were out,” she mused. “He’d make an excellent catch.” She snapped a nod as if the die had been cast. “You may go with us, Ariadne, but you are to comport yourself with all propriety. I trust I have made myself clear.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Ariadne said, careful to keep her gaze on the white and black marble tiles of the floor. “Of course.”

  Daphne took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

  It was a tense ride to the Caldecott estate on the edge of London. Ariadne could feel her mother’s gaze on her as if she expected her youngest daughter to leap from the carriage and run off into the night. In truth, the thought was somewhat appealing. The closer to the ball, the more her nerves tingled across her skin. What if he was cruel, unkind? What if this was all a horrid joke? Worse, what if he was an imbecile? No, no, never that. They had spoken enough times for her to know he had a brain in his head. And he’d certainly observed her often enough to know she wanted to become better acquainted.

  Still, she clung to Daphne’s side as a footman announced her family and they entered the already crowded ballroom of the Caldecott’s home. While massive paintings of serene landscapes graced the walls, the wide room was crowned with gilded molding along a high ceiling where creation burst into being with bright colors. All the silks and satins in the room made the space a kaleidoscope of color and movement. It took a moment for Ariadne to locate the double doors leading out onto the balcony, and not only because their hostess had placed potted palms to block the exit. What, was she trying to keep her guests from escaping?

  It was only half past eight, which meant she must endure an hour and a half of idle chit-chat and tepid dancing before she could meet her centurion. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t seek him out sooner. How clever he’d think her when she guessed his secret!

  So Ariadne, Daphne, and Priscilla and Emily, who were also in attendance, circled the ballroom. Like Daphne, Priscilla was in white, her gown tucked and laced in all the right places to accentuate her best qualities. Emily wore plum, as did Lady Minerva, who was glaring at them through her quizzing glass from a padded chair along the wall.

  “Ignore her,” Emily said as if she’d noticed the direction of Ariadne’s gaze. “She’s in rare form tonight.”

  “And so are we,” Priscilla said, rubbing her gloved hands together so that the golden bangle at her wrist gleamed. “Tonight, we catch our centurion.”

  Daphne nodded. “For Ariadne.”

  She felt herself coloring. It was kind of them to be helping her, but then, she’d done the same for Priscilla and Emily since they’d come to London. The foursome strolled among the crowds, who were awaiting the first song from the string quartet seated on a dais at the back of the room. She spotted girls who were on their first Season like her, leading ladies who could command Society at any age, gentlemen of means and education who spoke in animated tones of the war on the Continent or the Prince’s lavish spending.

  “That’s Archibald Stump,” Priscilla murmured, nodding toward a group of gentlemen holding up the far corner. “He certainly has the presence to be your centurion.”

  He did at that. Dark-haired head high, he surveyed the ballroom with a hooded gaze as if already bored. His shoulders in a fitted coat of blue velvet were impressive. Could it be?

  “Can you introduce me?” Ariadne whispered.
>
  Priscilla eyed her. “A lady has no need to seek introduction. If you wish to meet Mr. Stump, you must endeavor to make him come to you. Now, do exactly as I say.”

  Ariadne listened, eyes widening. “Oh, I couldn’t!”

  Daphne grinned. “I could.”

  “You did wish to unmask the fellow,” Emily reminded her.

  Ariadne squared her shoulders. “I still do. Very well. Come along.”

  She positioned herself near Mr. Stump, who had not apparently noticed her existence. So much for the power of her green dress. Still, if he was trying to remain anonymous, of course he wouldn’t give himself away so easily.

  Putting her back to the fellow, she tossed her head and said in her most carrying voice, “I don’t care who he is! If I wish to dance with a gentleman, I will find a way!”

  “Well,” Priscilla said, equally loud enough to make Ariadne want to cringe, “I cannot argue with you there. You cannot do better than to wish for the company of Archibald Stump.”

  “I hear he is a paragon,” Daphne put in earnestly. “Bruising rider, excellent shot, graceful dancer, excellent embroiderer.”

  “Daphne,” Ariadne warned.

  “Were you seeking me, dear lady?”

  It had worked. Ariadne put on her best smile and turned toward the male voice that did not sound quite as warm as she remembered it. But then, she was used to things never quite being what she had imagined. Up close, he positively exuded male presence with his elegantly tied cravat, his manly calves displayed to advantage in white silk stockings.

  She lowered her gaze. “Oh, Mr. Stump. Such a pleasure to meet you.”

  “My dear friend,” Priscilla supplied, “Miss Ariadne Courdebas.”

  He took Ariadne’s hand and bowed over it. “The pleasure is all mine.” He squeezed her fingers and glanced up at her with a secret smile.

  Was that a sign? Was he trying to tell her he was the man she sought? She met his gaze, admiring the sparkling green of his eyes.

  Ariadne blinked, pulling back her hand. “How kind. Well, enjoy your evening.” She turned and walked away.

  Daphne scurried after her. “Why are you leaving? You had him where you wanted him.”

  Ariadne shook her head. “Unfortunately, I found I did not want him. His eyes are the wrong color.”

  Daphne deflated. “Well, fah!” She brightened. “But you still have three more to go.”

  Three more? She wasn’t sure she could go through with such a mortifying performance again.

  Priscilla seemed to agree. “I smoothed things over,” she said as she and Emily rejoined them. “I told him that he had been far too bold and to remember to treat a lady more civilly in the future. With any luck, he’ll beg your pardon when next you meet.”

  “I don’t want his apology,” Ariadne protested. “I don’t want anything to do with him. I’m not even sure I should be here.” She glanced at the clock, which showed the hour as nearing nine. She would never last until ten.

  Priscilla and Emily were debating what to do next. Ariadne put out a hand. “For all I love the stage, I was never meant to be on it. The night is warm. I’ll simply wait on the balcony.”

  “Are you certain?” Emily pressed. “What if he’s a dastard with homicidal tendencies?”

  “Or a man obsessed with women’s dancing slippers?” Daphne added.

  “I’ll be fine,” Ariadne assured them. “He’s already protected me once. I feel certain he will do so again.”

  “And what of your attacker?” Emily countered, eyes narrowed. “What if he seeks you out instead?”

  “I highly doubt such a villain would be admitted to the Caldecott ball,” Ariadne told them. “But if you are concerned, station yourselves near the door. If anyone save Freddie Pulsipher, Mr. Cunningham, Sir Damon, or Lord Hawksbury enters the balcony behind me, sound the alarm.”

  Chapter Seven

  What was she doing? Nodding to an acquaintance, he strolled closer to the doors of the balcony. He’d watched her since the moment she’d arrived, noticing to whom she spoke, determining who else watched her. There was no lack of admiration tonight, not with her in that green dress that whispered of womanly curves and set her hair to shining. She didn’t seem to notice. Indeed, the only man who had received any attention from her was Archibald Stump, and that attention hadn’t lasted longer than the moment she’d looked into his eyes. It was rather gratifying to know she was more interested in finding him.

  But to wait alone on the balcony a good hour before they were to meet was only inviting trouble. He didn’t think his quarry moved in high enough circles to gain admittance as a guest to the Caldecott ball, but that didn’t mean the fellow hadn’t sneaked in among the press of the crowd or slipped through an unlatched window. Even now, he could be hiding in a forgotten corner.

  Like a blocked off balcony.

  There was nothing for it. He’d have to reveal himself sooner than planned, if only to keep her safe. He couldn’t help the thrill of pleasure as he moved toward the door.

  *

  Ariadne realized she was drumming her fingers on the stone balustrade and forced herself to stop. For one thing, the movement was better suited to a villain planning dire deeds than a heroine pining for her true love. For another, it didn’t do the least bit of good in calming her nerves. She only wished she’d brought her journal and pencil that she might record her thoughts. Writing always focused her, took her away for a moment to another world where good triumphed and right was never inconvenienced by a stone in a slipper or the too much chocolate before bedtime.

  She heard the door snick open behind her, and her heart leapt (goodness, that cliché was true too!). Turning, she saw the shadow of a man walking toward her. The moonlight revealed curly blond hair and a gamin grin.

  “I hoped I might find you out here,” Horatio Cunningham said.

  Ariadne beamed at him, happiness bubbling up. “And I hoped you’d be the one to find me.”

  He came to stand beside her, and they shared a conspiratorial smile. He leaned the elbows of his evening black on the balustrade. “What a fine night. The stars shine like the light in your eyes.”

  “Very good,” Ariadne said with a nod. “You’ve been practicing.”

  He cast her a glance. “What gentleman wouldn’t practice when preparing to meet great beauty?”

  Oh, but she could fall in love with this man. “And what exactly do you plan for your great beauty?”

  He straightened, and her heart hammered so hard she felt it to her toes. “I wanted to ask you a question.”

  A request for a dance? The promise of a kiss? A proposal of marriage? “Anything,” she murmured, swaying closer.

  He leaned closer as well, until she could smell the spice of his cologne. “Do you think Priscilla Tate truly intends to marry Nathan Kent, or do I stand of chance of winning her affections?”

  Ariadne straightened, staring at him. “What?”

  He straightened as well. “I suppose it is presumptuous. I haven’t the fortune and address to win such a beauty. But I cannot stop thinking about her!”

  Oh, the ignominy! Over the years, she’d accustomed herself to Priscilla or Daphne or even Emily getting the lion’s share of attention, but even from him? No, that simply wasn’t in the script.

  She narrowed her eyes in sudden suspicion. “Have you ever dressed like a Roman centurion?”

  Even in the moonlight she could see him blink. “No. Do you think that would help?”

  Ariadne pointed to the ballroom, holding her trembling finger stiff from sheer force of will. “Out. Now. And never darken my door again.”

  “But I haven’t darkened your door,” he protested, backing away from the fury that must be written on her face. “That isn’t even your door.”

  Ariadne followed him. “Leave, or I shall scream and you will find yourself forced to offer for me to save your sorry reputation.”

  Faced with such dire consequences, he ran.

  She sho
ok her head as she lowered her finger. Coward. Priscilla had tried to tell her a few days ago that Mr. Cunningham was not the man she thought him, but Ariadne hadn’t wanted to believe her. Still, it was rather disappointing to find that her sterling hero had feet of clay.

  Or no feet at all, as the case would be.

  “He wasn’t worth your time,” said a warm male voice from the darkest corner of the balcony. “You are well rid of him.”

  Ariadne sucked in a breath. “If you are here to ask after Daphne or Priscilla or Lady Emily, you can follow him through the door this minute.”

  “Why would I want to ask after any of them when I came here for you?”

  A shadow detached itself from the wall and strode toward her. Though she’d been waiting for just this moment, she backed away until she bumped into the balustrade. Moonlight glided strong brows, a leonine nose, firm features softened by a generous mouth that was curling even now in a smile. The black of his evening coat suited him, as did the perfectly tied cravat, the white-on-white Marcella waistcoat. Like his clothing, he was a man of extremes.

  He was certainly not Archibald Stump or Freddie Pulsipher, and she knew he wasn’t Horatio Cunningham. With fifty-fifty odds, she lowered her gaze and dipped a courtesy. “Lord Hawksbury.”

  He jerked to a stop. “My word, but you’re clever. What gave me away?”

  She smiled as she rose. “My friends and I were able to lay our hands on Lord Rottenford’s guest list. Between Priscilla’s knowledge of Society and Emily’s family connections, we narrowed the list down to four men who might have been dressed as a Roman centurion that night. You were the most logical.”

  He shook his head, in admiration, she hoped. “Well done. Then you must realize why I keep my pastime a secret.”

  “Of course. Think of the scandal should it become known that the heir to the Marquess of Winthrop was a spy.”

  He took a step closer. “Rather say intelligence agent, and do not say it overly loud. The walls have ears.”

  “Apparently so,” she said, glancing to where he had been hiding. She swallowed. “How much did you hear?”